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  ‘Actually, no,’ Slider discovered. ‘I don’t think she likes me.’

  ‘You are a PR nightmare,’ Atherton allowed. ‘But I don’t think she likes any of us. I tried to get on her good side once, but I fell off the other side without finding it.’

  ‘You didn’t ask her out?’ Slider said, horrified.

  Atherton gave him a look so cool you could have kept a side of salmon on it for a month. ‘What do you think of me? What did she want, anyway?’

  ‘I’m to say it appears to be a tragic accident. You lot are to say nothing.’

  Atherton shrugged. ‘Are we going to talk to the Hollinshead woman now?’

  ‘Yes – I’m sorry it’s taken so long. Is she still holding up?’

  ‘Extremely well. Probably hasn’t sunk in yet.’

  Watched over impassively by WPC Lawrence, Amy Hollinshead was still sitting staring at nothing, but she looked exhausted. It would be sinking in right about now, Slider thought, and he pitied her. She had lost not only someone she had worked with closely for years, and probably admired, but also her job – and while he had no idea how easy it was in the publishing world to get a new one, it meant a violent disruption to her life.

  ‘I won’t keep you much longer,’ he said kindly. ‘Just a few more questions.’

  ‘You’ve seen his office?’ she said, looking up anxiously. ‘Does it – did he really fall out of the window?’

  As opposed to jump? Slider imagined the question. ‘It looks likely that that’s what happened.’ She closed her eyes a moment as if in pain. ‘You said that he didn’t have any medical conditions that you were aware of, that might make him overbalance?’

  ‘He was fit and well, as far as I knew,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Did he drink a lot?’

  That sharpened her. ‘He wasn’t a drunk,’ she said.

  ‘But he obviously did like a drink,’ said Slider. ‘Decanters in his snug. And a glass of brandy on the desk.’

  ‘Yes, he liked a drink. Lots of people do. But I never saw him the worse for it. He just got smilier. Never bad-tempered. Never unsteady, or slurring his words, or anything like that.’ She was defending him like a lioness her cub.

  Slider switched course. ‘Tell me about yesterday. Was he in the office all day?’

  ‘No, he had lunch with Cathy Beccles. She’s rights manager at Wolff and Baynes. The publishers.’ He waited, and she filled in the silence. ‘That’s quite a big part of his job, keeping in with editors and rights directors and so on, all the people who can affect the progress of a book, or an author.’

  ‘What time did he get back?’

  ‘About half past four, quarter to five. I’m not sure exactly.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a long lunch?’

  ‘Not really. About the usual. They were old friends.’

  ‘Then I suppose it would be quite a boozy lunch,’ Atherton put in smoothly, very much matter-of-fact. ‘I know those sort of occasions.’

  ‘Well, they had alcohol,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I could smell it on his breath when he came in. But he wasn’t drunk. And Cathy would have had to go back to work, so they wouldn’t have been drinking hard.’

  Slider took it back. ‘And what sort of mood was he in when he got back?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Cheerful. Just normal.’

  ‘Then what did he do?’

  ‘Got changed. Did some emails, some paperwork. We talked a bit about routine business. Then I went home.’ Another shadow flitted across. ‘And that was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’ Slider slipped the question in.

  ‘Wearing? Well, a suit to go up to Town, of course. Then he changed into cords and a sweater,’ she answered. She examined his face. ‘Bottle green cords and a grey cashmere sweater, if it matters?’

  ‘Was that what he usually wore to hang around the house alone? He didn’t dress down more?’

  ‘You mean, slob clothes? No,’ she said, with a hint of reproof. ‘He wasn’t made that way. He was always smart, whatever he was doing. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It was what he was wearing when he was found, and I was wondering what he did during the evening, after you left. He looked smart enough to have been going out again, or having company in.’

  ‘I told you, he said he was reading manuscripts all evening. And there was nothing in his diary about a visitor.’

  ‘Still, someone might ring him and come round. Or he might go out later – for something to eat, for instance?’

  ‘He didn’t eat much in the evenings,’ she said, ‘and especially not if he’d had lunch out. He was very careful of his figure. His health in general. He was very serious about keeping fit and well.’

  ‘Yes, we saw his exercise gear in the spare room upstairs,’ said Atherton.

  An arrested look crossed her face. ‘What is it?’ Slider asked.

  ‘He could have had a visitor, of course,’ she said in a distant voice, as though she was thinking about something else. ‘I think he’d have mentioned if he knew someone was coming round, but someone might drop in. As you say.’

  ‘You thought of something just then,’ Slider persisted. ‘What was it?’

  She shook her head, tried to smile, found it painful and stopped trying. ‘It was when you mentioned … Upstairs. His private space.’ She gave a little gulp. ‘I just suddenly realised – I’ll never see him again. It’s hardly sunk in yet. I can’t …’

  That sentence didn’t seem to go anywhere. He watched her for a moment, chewing her lip. Then he asked, ‘You’ve worked for him for a long time?’

  ‘Thirteen years,’ she said. ‘Before that I was an editorial assistant with Random House, but after four years there, it all began to seem too … corporate. I wanted more hands-on contact with books and authors. I saw an advertisement for a job with Wiseman & Cantor, had an interview, and they hired me right away.’

  ‘Cantor?’ Slider queried.

  ‘That was Reggie’s maiden name. Regina Cantor, Ed’s wife. Ex-wife, I should say. She was an agent too. After they divorced and she left the partnership, he went back to just Wiseman, but it was still Wiseman and Cantor when I joined.’

  The questions had settled her, and he rose to go, thanking her for her co-operation. ‘Lawrence here will take down your statement, and then you’re free to leave.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said vaguely. She looked a little dazed. ‘If you need to ask me any more questions … Anything you need. Ed was … such a wonderful person. I want to help.’ She met his eyes. ‘You don’t think it was suicide, do you? He seemed happy. I can’t bear to think he was unhappy, and hiding it. It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

  To avoid answering that question, Slider asked one of his own, that he should have got in earlier. ‘Oh, by the way, did he wear glasses? Contact lenses?’

  ‘Glasses, but just for reading,’ she said automatically. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘We found a pair. What did they look like?’

  ‘Just ordinary, rather old-fashioned. Brown frames.’ He showed her the photograph on the tablet. ‘Yes, that looks like them.’ She seemed shaken.

  He had reached the door when she said abruptly, ‘Can I see him?’

  He said, ‘He’s been taken away now. I’m sorry.’ But he wasn’t. He thought of the battered face. She should be spared that.

  When they eventually returned to the car, Atherton said, ‘Clearly Hollinshead was in love with her boss.’

  ‘Steady,’ said Slider. ‘Clearly she liked and admired him.’

  ‘No surprise if she did. He was supposed to be Mr Charisma. Anyway, it looks like accident, so that lets us off the hook. At least, there’s no evidence of suicide. I presume that will please Mr Carpenter.’

  ‘He might want us to look through Wiseman’s papers to make sure he didn’t have any money problems or health worries – any reason to top himself.’

  ‘If he doesn’t want it to be suicide, he’s better off not having us dig an
y further, isn’t he? I mean, you can always find something in a person’s life that wasn’t hunky-dory.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider absently.

  Atherton glanced at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Slider replied. A pause. ‘Just … something.’

  ‘A consummate answer. Want to drive?’

  ‘No, I want to look him up on Wiki. I really don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘I’m quicker at that than you. You drive, I’ll Google.’

  Slider grunted, but agreed. He eased the car out of the parking spot.

  Atherton started scrolling. ‘Well, look at this,’ he said. ‘Conjunctivitis.com. That’s a site for sore eyes.’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘Ok. Wiki, then: Edward Falcon Wiseman.’

  ‘Falcon? Named after Scott of the Antarctic?’

  ‘Who knows? Age sixty-seven.’

  ‘He looks good for it.’

  ‘Yes, and it puts all those condoms into context,’ Atherton said. ‘Born in Cheltenham, father Leo Wiseman, literary agent. Mother Miranda Hastings, actress.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Me neither. Probably gave it up to become a mother. Oxford University, Classics degree. Editorial jobs at Faber, Heinemann, Chatto & Windus, and then joined his father’s firm, the Leo Wiseman Literary Agency.’

  ‘Imaginative name.’

  ‘Later they had professional differences—’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Doesn’t say.’ Atherton scrolled on. ‘So he left and set up on his own. Married Regina Cantor, also an agent, went into partnership as Wiseman & Cantor Literary Agency. Children Olivia, thirty-seven, Ivo, thirty-five. Among his clients are John Grisewood. Spy stories. Le Carré-esque,’ he explained kindly to Slider.

  ‘I know that. I’ve heard of him. I’m not a complete philistine.’

  ‘Martin Pusey. Maritime adventures. Nelson’s navy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Virginia Foulkes.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘History mysteries. Regency detective stories.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘How do you know? Don’t tell me you read that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ex-girlfriend Lucinda used to read them.’

  ‘Did they even have detectives in Regency times?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Atherton shrugged. ‘Detective Dandies. Forensic fops. Beau Brummell with a bloodhound. Lucinda seemed to like them.’ He scrolled on. ‘And Guest Halliday, author of the Kay Tortelli medical examiner mysteries.’

  ‘I know about them,’ said Slider. ‘Every case solved by forensic experts alone. You’d never know detectives existed,’ he concluded bitterly. ‘Except to flounder about, baffled, and be rescued from humiliation by the giant brains of the scientists.’

  ‘So she was one of his. I’m impressed!’ Atherton said. ‘I doubt if he had money worries, in that case. He must make a fortune out of her alone.’

  ‘Really? I don’t actually know how literary agents work.’

  ‘They negotiate all the rights and get a percentage of everything the author earns. And remember, the Kay Tortelli stuff’s been on television.’

  ‘I know. Irene used to watch them.’ Irene was his first wife. ‘But I think she did it just to annoy me. I don’t think she really understood them.’

  ‘I saw a couple of episodes,’ Atherton admitted. ‘I was particularly fascinated by the women’s long pointed fingernails, wondering how come they didn’t pierce through the latex gloves.’

  As they passed Porson’s room, the Old Man called out, ‘Slider. In here.’

  ‘No, Slider out here,’ he muttered. But he went in anyway. Atherton went on down the corridor.

  Porson was standing by the filing cabinet, reading something laid out on the top. He had a pathological dislike of sitting down. Slider remembered reading somewhere that Tudor people had slept sitting up because they thought that if they lay down flat, God would think they were dead and whisk their souls away. And then they would be.

  Less welcome was the sight of the borough commander, sitting in Porson’s seat behind his desk. He looked up sharply as Slider came in. ‘Report,’ he snapped.

  Slider picked his words carefully. ‘We didn’t find a suicide note.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘His assistant says everybody liked him and he didn’t have any health problems or money worries.’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘She also said he liked a drink. And there was a glass of brandy on the desk where he was working.’

  ‘Even better. So you can wrap it up, then. Accidental death. Finish it tonight.’

  ‘I have to wait for the post-mortem report tomorrow.’

  Porson stirred a little, restively, but Carpenter positively scowled. ‘What the devil did you call for a post-mortem for?’

  ‘In the case of an unexpected death, sir—’

  ‘There has to be an inquest. There doesn’t have to be a post-mortem!’

  ‘I’d have thought all concerned would be glad of the reassurance, sir,’ Slider said delicately. ‘Just to tie up all possible ends.’ He swallowed. ‘And I’d like to call in SOC.’

  Carpenter exploded. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Some nice fingermarks in the right position on the window-sill would clinch it.’

  ‘Rubbish! Wouldn’t prove a thing! His own fingermarks in his own house? What the hell’s the matter with you? I give you one simple thing to do … I sometimes wonder about your sanity, Slider, I really do.’

  Slider bore it meekly. Bosses had to berate those below them, otherwise how did they know they were bosses? Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, brass gotta make you wish you could die …

  ‘Don’t even think of spending any further money on this,’ Carpenter concluded. ‘And get it wrapped up tomorrow.’

  He waved a dismissive hand, and Slider oozed out. Porson followed him, and in the corridor stood close and said quietly, so that Carpenter wouldn’t hear, ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Slider couldn’t answer. He just felt uneasy. But he couldn’t mention that to Porson, who could be scathing about ‘hunches’ if they didn’t fit in with his budgetary constraints. And Porson was a man who took to constraints of any sort like a cat to water.

  ‘No, sir,’ Slider said. His private niggle would either resolve itself, or it wouldn’t.

  Porson gave him a long, speculative look. He knew his Slider, and on the whole trusted his instincts, but letting him run with them could turn out very inconvenient to all around him, as he had discovered on previous occasions. And anyway, you couldn’t do everything. You had to prioritise. ‘Post-mortem we have to have, now you’ve ordered it,’ he said, ‘but as soon as the report’s in, wrap this up, so I can get Mr Carpenter off my … set his mind at rest. And get back to something important. Who’s the next of kin?’

  ‘Ex-wife, sir. Local police are informing her.’

  Porson nodded dismissal, but as Slider turned away, he said, in the same quiet voice, ‘Find out who leaked to the press. I was with Mr Carpenter when the Saddler woman gave him the news, and he wasn’t pleased. That’s how I got lumbered with it. If it was one of yours, I want to know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Slider. ‘I don’t like leaks either.’

  ‘Nip it in the bug,’ Porson said. ‘Before it nips you.’

  His people drifted in to report. None of the neighbours had seen or heard anything. London neighbours traditionally kept their eyes to themselves, and given that the fall could only have occupied a couple of seconds, they’d have had to be looking in exactly the right direction at exactly the right moment, so it wasn’t surprising.

  Site security seemed tight, and as far as one could determine the builders had knocked off between five and five thirty, though as Amy Hollinshead had seen him after six, that didn’t add anything.

  Hart came to his door. ‘Anything else for me, boss? I’m
off, otherwise.’

  ‘You’ve written up the builders’ statements?’

  ‘Yeah, not that there was anything to ’em. Except that they said they’d never seen that window open before. We asked if deceased had been in the habit of looking out at the works, and they said not that they’d noticed.’ She looked restless. ‘Not that that proves anything. I don’t suppose they look up from their work that often. Bit of a non-starter, all this, innit?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be. Disappointed?’

  ‘Well, if he’s dead anyway, he might as well give us a bit of fun while he’s at it.’

  ‘That’s a deplorable attitude. Oh, by the way – any idea who it was that tipped off the press?’

  ‘Yeah, boss, it was one of the builders,’ she answered at once.

  ‘I thought they were Poles and didn’t speak English?’

  ‘They all speak a bit. But one of ’em was born over here, so he speaks it like a native. And apparently the site manager wasn’t the only one to recognise Mr Next Door. This one’s phoned his wife before even Uniform got there, she’s got straight on to the papers, and once they’ve got the address it’s easy enough to find out the name and realise he’s a celeb – of sorts. I’d never heard of him,’ she concluded scornfully.

  ‘I see. Well, there was nothing you could have done about that. I’m glad it wasn’t one of us.’

  ‘Kidding? We wouldn’t dare. We all know how you feel. And after the Holland Lodge business …’ The leak enquiry after that case had taken longer than the original murder hunt.

  Slider didn’t want to be reminded. ‘Don’t probe the ulcer, sergeant. We were on a slippery slope there.’

  She gave him a sassy grin. ‘We got away with it, though. We’re all still here. ’Cept I’m going home now. G’night!’

  FOUR

  China Syndrome

  Atherton was the last. He appeared at Slider’s door, still looking, even after a day’s work, groomed and elegant. Slider, feeling grubby and rumpled, wondered how he did it. Probably had himself laminated. He remembered how, when he was a child growing up on an Essex farm, there had been a girl at junior school like that. Yvonne Manners. Never a hair out of place, whatever they’d all been doing. No one had liked her.